


Of Interrupted Drag Shows and Failed Duck Walks

by mehrto, Thyra279



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Drag Queen Crowley, He was a tailor boy, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), It jumps about in time, Like, M/M, Multi, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Tailor Aziraphale, There's a lot of smoking in this, They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), ball culture, because aesthetics, but also they fuck in chapter 1, it is a dreadful habit Aziraphale is right, it's a slow burn for them, voguing, we do not condone smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29094696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehrto/pseuds/mehrto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279
Summary: Aziraphale allowed himself a moment's respite from his conundrum to enjoy the first hit of the nicotine and made sure his precious fiery charge was safely within the protection of his umbrella. Somewhere to his left, the dull thumping of some modern-day bebop announced that Soho's immortal nightlife had woken up.So now. Back to his dilemma.The Tesco Metro had those very nice salmon and lemon fishcakes on offer this week; Sainsbury's Local had delicious chicken samosas every Thursday and they might even be half price by now seeing how late it'd gotten.___Anthony J. Crowley, a Mancunian drag queen, voguing pro, knitting amateur, and mother at the House of Gaia shares a tired cigarette with a hungry, snobby tailor whose shop is only just off Savile Row, thank you, one rainy night in Soho in 2008. They run into each other over and over again until they can’t help but become friends and soft and each other’s most significant other and a whole load of other things too, really.About belonging and acceptance and figuring out how to make things work at a place in your life you never really thought you’d be at.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 52
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	Of Interrupted Drag Shows and Failed Duck Walks

**Author's Note:**

> This collab was created as part of the beautiful Do It With Style Reverse Big Bang event.
> 
> I saw mehrto's image and LOVED it, and I was overjoyed when we got matched! And it's been an educational journey (there's a lot coming up in the next two chapters yo, though we keep it pretty soft and happy) and an inspirational one, and I've been very lucky to have mehrto and their own experiences with a club not unlike this one to guide me throughout!
> 
> Thank you mehrto, it's been great so far and LOOK AT THE BEAUTIFUL ART, and I look forward to continuing this for the next two chapters!

_April 2008, 10:35 PM_

The old guy appeared and disappeared, reappeared and disappeared with each flicker of the streetlight above. Whenever the light was on, his beige umbrella lit up like a murky halo. Beige _._ Who'd go for _beige_.

Just his face remained in view throughout, dim in the faint glow of the cigarette he was enjoying. A bit of white hair peeked out from beneath his hat – beige as well.

He really did seem to be enjoying that fag, didn't he.

Crowley could've sworn he could smell its sweet deadly fumes from here.

He looked very put together in – _gosh_ there was so much beige, wasn't there – in his waistcoat, his open beige coat, the hat. His neatly pressed trousers (beige), his little handkerchief stuffed into his chest pocket. Who had time for a handkerchief these days. But alright, the guy looked as if he had his life in order and Crowley had learnt to appreciate that kind of thing. Peaceful, serene, thoroughly steady. Good for him. He looked as if he had time to fully enjoy every puff and made a point to do so and fucking hell, Crowley was jealous. Look, he knew it was bad for him, but if that was the only vice he had left over to enjoy, then the kids should really just let him fucking have it.

The old dude looked a bit judgey perhaps, but now who was judging. Only one way to find out. He didn't look violent, at least. Crowley was pretty sure he could take him if it came to it.

He slinked his way down the steps, a little gingerly on the knee he'd twisted during rehearsals the other day, and over to the guy, stepping through every puddle he could find. His latex boots wouldn't mind at all. He waited until he was still far enough away to be well out of reach (just in case) but close enough to speak softly, in a friendly tone so as not to startle him.

"'Scuse me mate, you don't happen to have a spare, do you? I'm all out and I'm-…"

Well the guy fucking startled, didn't he, and dropped his cigarette.

_April 2008, 10:32 PM_

Aziraphale slowed down just off of Regent Street to approach his impending decision with the solemn gravity which it deserved, giving his umbrella a little absentminded roll in his hand, quite lost in thought. In fact, his dilemma was so severe that he came to a full stop somewhere along Beak Street a minute later to really think it through. One of his scruffed-up cigarettes had made its way into his mouth before he even realised, lit by his ancient silver lighter with only a little difficulty on behalf of said umbrella.

He allowed himself a moment's respite from his conundrum to enjoy the first hit of the nicotine, though, and made sure his precious fiery charge was safely within the protection of his umbrella. Somewhere to his left, the dull thumping of some modern-day bebop announced that Soho's immortal nightlife had woken up. Aziraphale greeted it with a well-practised exhale, a little sigh of pleasure.

So now. Back to his dilemma.

The Tesco Metro had those very nice salmon and lemon fishcakes on offer this week; Sainsbury's Local had delicious chicken samosas every Thursday and they might even be half price by now seeing how late it'd gotten. Again.

Of course, both would do very nicely paired with a good chilled white wine from the local-

"'Scuse me mate, you don't happen to 'ave a spare, do yer? I'm all out and I'm-…"

Well the man came out of nowhere, _of course_ he startled!

Unfortunately for the both of them, said startle involved a little jerk of his arm which caused the cigarette to escape, in fact it slipped right out from between two very well-manicured fingers and made an elegant leap into the drizzly summernight's air between them.

The two watched with detached anguish as the little flame nosedived directly into a puddle of what they both chose to believe was just rainwater. Then they looked up and met each other's eyes, each recognising in the other a kindred dull surprise at what had just occurred between them.

"…Whoopsie-daisy." Aziraphale offered, a moment later.

"Fuck," Crowley agreed.

"Quite." Aziraphale blinked, frowned, and finally took in the tall man who'd accosted him in the way most Londoners knew not to, disturbed him in his really _very_ well-deserved moment of respite.

"Shit. Sorry mate," the really _very_ tall stranger continued, sounding it.

_10:36 PM_

The cigarette fell to its watery death and Crowley looked up and into the face of a bloke much younger than the one he'd expected.

Huh. Not that old at all. Just insanely white hair, apparently, beyond platinum. Dyed? Didn't seem his thing. With that and the dressing like a geriatric, he'd appeared at first glance a good twenty years older than he looked up close. But really he wasn't much more than 35, 40 at a glance, same as himself, really.

It'd been a long time since Crowley'd misread someone this badly. He was usually very good at reading people, he had to be. Shit.

The beigey blond looked him over, finally reached his face and hair with a little frown.

Fuck. Would be just his luck if he turned out to be a bigot too.

Then the guy smiled a small little smile and Crowley felt weirdly, immediately at ease.

_10:36 PM_

The man was wearing a very confusing assortment of garments. Aziraphale frowned, trying to make sense of it all.

The first thing he realised as he glanced at him that at least part of his great height was due to the pair of black latex boots he was wearing. They followed his long, lean legs all the way up to the pair of very short shorts – denim, terrible quality by the looks of it, and Aziraphale _did_ look, yes – which clung to his hips and backside and looked very snug indeed. Very. Really very snug. Indeed…

…

…Oh yes! Ahem. His upper body was enveloped in a large black hooded sweatshirt and the hood had been left untouched despite the rain in favour of- in favour of.

In favour of the most _hideous_ attempt at a knitted hat Aziraphale had ever seen, clashing so horribly with his gorgeous long red hair it should have been a crime.

It was only when the young man cleared his throat and started speaking again he realised he'd been staring at the synthetic monstrosity. His regal face looked much more closed off, suddenly.

"…Wot?"

_10:37 PM_

It's not that Crowley wasn't used to people staring. He _knew_ he looked unconventional with his long hair and his tightly trimmed brows and, yeah, fair enough, today he was even wearing his boots still, taking them home to clean them. He knew it was a look and he liked the attention, just not _all_ the time.

It's just that for a moment there, he'd thought this guy wouldn't with his apologising for dropping his own fag and his friendly smile and the slightly warm buzz in Crowley's stomach when he looked at his startling eyes, his surprisingly cute, sharp nose, the soft fuzziness of the white curls that stuck out beneath his hat…

Well, Crowley'd never strived to be rational. He had, however, always stood up for himself, learnt that confrontation sometimes led to education. _Sometimes_ it might lead to problems, of course, but a lot of time, well, it was just fun to see the bigots fretting, wasn't it.

He squared himself up, stood a little taller in his 5-inch heels, let his hands curl into subtle fists at his sides.

"…Wot?"

It took a moment, a blink of his intelligent eyes for the guy to look absolutely mortified.

"Oh, I – I wasn't, it's just-"

"Just what."

"Just- ah."

"Just what?"

"Just – your, ah-"

"Yeah? Just _what_?"

"Just- just- your _hat_!"

Crowley huffed, broke into a sneering leer, crossing his arms. "My hat? Sure."

"No-no, it _really_ is. Just your, uhm, your hat…" Aziraphale insisted, getting a bit testy himself. "…If one can call it that."

Crowley's leer turned a little more disbelieving, a lot more amused. "…It really _is_ about the hat then."

He glared at it again, couldn't help himself. "Did you make it yourself?"

"Yup. Knitted it m'self," he sniffed. "What about it?"

Aziraphale shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Considered his options, who he wanted to be as a person, deep down, his upbringing, the meaning of life and ethics. "…It's very nice."

"You know, I don't think you think so."

Aziraphale glanced at the monstrosity again, held back a shiver at the smattering of gaping holes where masks had been missed. "It's very, ah, it's very… creative."

"Right."

"…Yes."

"Cheers…"

The rain drizzled down between them. It made the whole street light up, Crowley always thought, when it rained, made a weird little upside-down underworld out of all the lights from the clubs and bars along the street, just out of reach below the ground.

Aziraphale shifted on his feet. He'd always hated the way the rain washed up all the discarded plastic cups, all the straws and tissues and rotten leaves of the streets, left his beloved part of London looking dreary and drowned.

"So did you have one? A spare?"

" _Oh_!" His free hand dove into the pocket of his coat, grateful for something to do with itself. It pulled out a scrunched-up packet of cigarettes, far too light for its liking. "Oh no." He sounded so sorry, so genuine. "I'm afraid that was my last one."

"Probably a good thing," Crowley shrugged. "I mean. We all know they lead to all sorts of trouble down the line. I mean, we all _should_ know by now at least. What with all those, erh. Ads. Marketing… campaigns."

"Oh, erh, yes. Yes, I do know. Dreadful habit. I've tried stopping, of course."

"Yeah, same here. In fact I'm off 'em right now."

"Oh well, I did you a favour then, having run out."

"'spose you did. Did I do you a favour then, scaring the living daylights out of you and making you drop that one?" he gave a little nod to the now heavily swollen butt sulking in the puddle, grinned at the guy.

"You didn't – you didn't _scare_ me; you startled me," he tutted. "I simply hadn't noticed you."

Well if Crowley pouted a tiny bit at that, he could be forgiven for it, surely.

The guy certainly lit up, rolling his eyes in the orange light from the street lamp, keeping a smile in line. It seemed to poke a foot juuust over it, _so_ very nearly turning into a smirk. "Oh, come now, it's not that you aren't very… noteworthy, erh-…?"

"Crowley."

"Crowley?" He tasted the name on his tongue. Crowley gave a little nod. "It's not that you aren't very noteworthy, but I'm afraid I was lost to thought."

"Oh? Anything noteworthier?"

"Dinner."

Crowley lifted half a well-defined eyebrow before he realised what he'd meant. "Oh. Right. Yeah, big decision."

"Indeed." He put the empty packet back in his pocket for throwing out later. "Fishcakes or samosas?"

"Oh, the ones from Tesco? They're clutch, aren't they?"

"They're what now?"

"They're amazing."

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes they are. Though I rather think I'll go for fishcakes tonight, pair them with a nice white wine."

"Oh in that case you should swing by that little Spar just round the corner, they have a surprisingly decent selection of-"

"-Chilled white wines! Yes! Yes they do! You know, I think I shall, I'll make an evening of it."

Their sudden flight of excitement petered out just as quickly, weighed down by the suggestion they'd accidentally strayed close to.

A single car drove by, slowly, so as not to splash them. Crowley sniffed. "Well, I'd erh. I'd better get home. Big day tomorrow, got a show."

"Yes. Yes, quite – best of lu- oh no, break a leg, that's bad luck isn't it?" He laughed a little. "Sorry for the, the no cigar."

"My own fault, really." He nodded at the soaking cigarette. "Sorry for your loss."

"Pardon? Oh! Oh, yes. Thank you. Mind how you go now."

"Yeah, cheers, yeah. You too."

And so two perfect London strangers passed into the night in each direction, both a little happier that night at having met each other, both just a little sad that that was all that happened.

_April 2017, 01:28 AM_

"Hullo, Aziraphale." Crowley's long fingers trembled as they lit a cigarette, gave away the adrenaline still coursing through her body. She stepped up to the railing at the top of the half-stairs, leant over it almost casually with the first smoky exhale. The exhaustion set in as soon as she relaxed, ageing muscles finally allowing themselves to feel the strain.

She didn't let them for long, shifting her weight from one heeled boot to the other, settling one foot between two of the balusters. If it caused one of her long legs to peek out of the dress directly at Aziraphale, well. She was an old hand at this.

The bastard barely gave her leg a glance, looking up at her face instead with that stupidly soft smile that always seemed so entirely, beautifully out of place in the thumping base and harsh lights of the club.

"You look wonderful tonight, my dear."

She forced herself to take a luxuriously deep inhale, exhaled just as slowly. Settled into her deeper, lazier off-duty voice. "See now, angel, you're saying that as if it's not an everyday occurrence."

A bead of sweat that made its way from her hairline down her cheekbone, clinging on for dear life at her chin for a moment before giving up, dropping on to the floor between them.

If it had fucked up her makeup, her perfectly pristine skin, she would bloody kill it.

Aziraphale merely smiled, taking the first step up towards her.

The bundle of roses crinkled in their paper wrapping behind Aziraphale's back as he did - they'd have given the game away if it wasn't blatantly obvious they were there, if it wasn't the 100th time he'd brought her some. Red roses today, Crowley noticed with surprise, taking another drag.

"You were very good out there tonight. _'Fierce'_ , I believe one might say?"

Crowley cracked a smile, couldn't help herself. "Sure. One might."

A cloud of nearly-white curls bounced gently as he nodded at her leg, now fully out in the open. Good. Half her arse was out on display at this point.

"How's your knee holding up, my dear?"

"Oh _fuck right off._ M'knee's fine."

Crowley hated the concern so obvious in the lines of Aziraphale's forehead, felt a mad urge to dab them away, drown them out with a good glue and plenty of foundation. Annoy him until he lost that soft, gentle hum in his voice, until the camp, harsh bastard emerged.

She had no such luck.

"Perhaps if you were to include fewer of those – those bouncy things… are they dog walks?"

Crowley blinked at him, sniffed. "Ducks."

"Duck walks. They can't be good for your poor knee."

A shrug. "They're integral, though."

Aziraphale ascended the rest of the stairs in his urgency, flowers hopping along down his side. "But you could include more of the other elements to make up for it? More hands might be very elegant, and you are _so_ very good at those, so expressive."

"I can't just do _hands_ , angel, 's not my style."

Aziraphale settled right next to her, gripping the railing as he frowned at her. "Anthony, you _must_ take care of yourself, we both know you aren't twenty anymore, it's been near-on _thirty years_ since-"

" _Alright alright_ , why don't you shout it a little louder Aziraphale, there's a guy in the basement loo getting blown who _might_ not've heard you," she hissed.

She put her weight back on her dodgy leg to prove a point – and couldn't help but wince.

Aziraphale sighed beside her. "I'm only looking out for you."

Crowley softened. "I know. I do. I know. My guardian angel, always kindness itself." She gave him a little shove. He stood quite firm, gave her a withering look from the step below that any old drag queen would've been proud of.

Aziraphale's beautifully intelligent eyes grew playful little by little, looking up at her.

"I brought you flowers."

"Oh, those for me?"

"Obviously."

"Red roses, Aziraphale," she muttered in a low voice, sidling just a little closer, not quite touching. "Trying to tell me something?"

He looked straight ahead again and she watched curiously as a blush crept from his curls all the way to his unusual, handsome, slightly arrogant nose.

"…Yes." He glanced at her quickly, couldn't help but smile at her expression. "I thought perhaps, if your knee is _very_ bad this evening…" There was a maddening trill to his voice, low and intimate too. "I might carry you to your office upstairs. Take care of you…" he trailed.

Crowley managed nothing more than to close her mouth before her dramatic lips fell open again.

"Perhaps," he continued, _sotto voce_ , brushing up her hot, sweaty leg with his skilled tailor's fingers, "I could show you all the _wonderful_ things one might do with one's hands?"

_September 2008, 00:12 AM_

The summer came and went in a flurry of weddings and a quiet but determined battle to convince the world that too-skinny Italian suits were _not_ appropriate attire for British summer celebrations of a certain standard, thank you very much.

It had been the most profitable summer since the Ordnance Survey disaster of 2004. (It was _fine_ , Aziraphale was _over it_ , he had much bigger fish to fry, he had _made do_ and it had been at least eight months and four days since his last furious electronic-mail exchange with the Land and Property ~~Fasci~~ Mappers.)

The summer season was going strong still, very strong indeed, having stretched out to include not just September but half of October too some time in the early 2000s when wedding venues realised there was unexploited potential there.

Aziraphale did not mind in the slightest; in fact he was finally turning a _very_ tidy profit, could begin to save up for the second-floor shop expansion again after the whole debacle with those map fu-.

He forced himself to take a momentary break from his musings, meandering aimlessly around the streets of eastern Mayfair and western Soho. He stopped at the top of Beak Street, lit a cigarette, and took a deep inhale, let the delicious fumes flow down his throat and into his lungs, transform into that heavy headiness he so adored. Felt the overworked muscles of his neck, his back relax.

 _Aaah_.

He would stop soon, one of these days, as soon as the season was over, he thought, idly watching the smoke dance away into the warm night air.

Dreadful habit.

Of course, then there was the New Year's run, the third most busy season of the year.

After that at least. Certainly.

Indubitably.

Lord Above, it was just what he needed at this moment, however. A quiet half hour to get away from the business, to steal away his beloved city for himself for just a moment.

He had not had a single day off work since May, and he rather liked it that way. He spent almost every moment at A. Z. Fell and Co.; cherished his shop which was set up in exactly the way he wanted it, not for efficiency but for _atmosphere_ , dressed tastefully historically in honour of the generations of master tradesmen that had gone before him.

His family had, according to his own research, taken up the needle some time in the mid-1600s. Tobias and Gertrud Pfell, Aziraphale's great great great great great grandparents, had moved into number 7, Savile Row, in 1761 and their eldest grandson had set up the anglicised _Fell and Co_. in the year 1800.

He bore on a great family tradition. The _proper_ way.

…Never mind that _A. Z. Fell and Co._ had only existed since 2000. Or that the only property available for purchase had been the corner lot. The Fells had been back on Savile Row, the finest men's tailoring street in the entire Kingdom, if not the world. Back where they belonged. Where _he_ belonged with his pedigree and his twelve years of study and apprenticeships at places which cared much more about fads and fast fashion and social media management than about _craftsmanship_.

Never mind that one side of his shop neighboured lifeless limestone facades hiding Private Equity firms and knock-off tailoring chains with hellish names like Scratch That Stitch and City Sewers.

Never mind, for if he peered out of the large, proud shopwindow on the other side of the shop (which he did frequently and exclusively), he faced those other big old family names – Gieves And Hawkes, Anderson & Sheppard, R. P. Tailor's & Son – and felt _at home._ If he craned his neck and pushed one of the window mannequins gently out of the way, he could even spot his own old family plot – though he didn't much like to do so these days, replaced as it was by the pulsating, oozing blemish that was the FCUK flagship store.

He refused to look at it, to acknowledge it in any way when he walked past – which he did at least once a day on his evening walks and at least twice on the days when he made it home to his flat at all. Today, he'd chosen to go the longer route, out his door and left rather than right, up Boyle Street, ducking back down Old Burlington just to avoid having to look at FCUK.

Or worse still, run into his cousin Gabriel there. Not that he was there most of the time. But it would be just his luck.

He'd inhaled the entire cigarette before he even knew it; had needed it _badly_ with these thoughts running away with him, mulling over the same sour grapes, the same _burning injustice_ they tended to do when he was in need of a good long walk.

He continued down Beak Street, down to where all the discotheques started up. Ah yes, there they were, the first dulcet tones of disco and bebop and whatever else was in vogue these days.

He enjoyed the occasional bar, the occasional sordid rendezvous with a handsome stranger, or a charming one, or even a quick one with whoever was available when the mood struck him and he felt the urge. Had been loosely familiar with the layout of Soho's gay bars and clubs as a younger man, though he'd felt terribly out of place there as soon as he stumbled across the threshold to his thirties and discovered his personal style.

He was quite happy to have all that behind him, to focus on his business these days. His legacy, his family's legacy, he thought, as he fumbled through the pockets of his coat for the packet he'd put away a few minutes earlier. He really ought to…

"Scuse me mate, I've got a spare if you're in need," a voice shouted from his left. "In fact," it continued as Aziraphale looked up the red bricks of the nearest house wall, discovered a mass of red hair in the first floor window. It appeared to be smoking a cigarette. "In fact, I think I owe yer."

The voice sounded familiar, its gentle northern lilt, though it was louder, higher-pitched than he remembered.

Before he had a chance to respond, there was a quick "'ang on, I'm coming down," and the window slid shut again, swallowing up the softly thumping beat of the disco music that had accompanied the voice.

It burst forth again much louder a moment later when a door opened and a very tall lady emerged from its shadows.

The lady - or… the, the… Whoever they were struck a very impressive figure, at least a foot taller than Aziraphale's not-insignificant frame. They gained another few inches just from their hair, arranged artfully into long, romantic waves evoking the 50s. The ends of the ringlets bopped gently at the top of a very open, _very_ fitted black mermaid dress, complete with silver sequins, long tight sleeves, and sharp shoulders that even the 80s would have been impressed with.

They walked down the few steps to the street and Aziraphale spotted a pair of sparkly silver stilettos so high he felt an immediate urge to carry her- him- them down the rest of the way, prevent them from falling and breaking their elegant ankles.

Their toes were painted a dark, glossy red just like their long nails and their lips too.

"Oi mate, eyes up here," those lips suddenly said in a deeper, much more familiar tone, and though they smiled in a very friendly manner, wide enough to show off irregular white teeth, Aziraphale startled and blushed, left them obediently to look into two very large, heavily framed eyes.

The makeup was impressive, skilled, rather beautiful really. Though it had nothing on the colour of those golden eyes, the beauty and liveliness of them.

They were somewhat familiar too. He'd seen them before, through the rain, lit up in the light from the same streetlamp they found themselves under now…

"Cr… Crawley?" he tried.

_00:18 AM_

"Crowley," Crowley corrected, with another, softer smile and a gentle nod. "Impressed you remember." The air was warm, sure, but nothing compared to the burning damp inferno downstairs. Luckily he was just hosting tonight. Overseeing. Just a normal club night, really.

"Well. You made an impression."

Crowley lifted an eyebrow – forgetting in the moment that it had no effect on his current face.

The guy looked exactly the same as last time, he thought. A blur of beige, at least, that's pretty much what he remembered. Dark trousers this time though, that was nice.

Besides, he kind of made it _work._ Somehow.

Anyhow.

"I owe ya a smoke."

Crowley had given them up entirely a year ago when he and the house moved down from Manchester. A new start, he'd declared, a bit too loud and proud looking back in hindsight.

He'd bummed cigs off Eric and Tracy and randomers like this guy for months now until they got tired of it and he'd had to buy his own again.

At least here there was a chance to pay back a bit.

Fairly sure he was gay, despite the beige. Pretty enough to be, put together, prissy, kind of handsome? But who could tell for certain these days.

He glanced at the guy as he dove into his cleavage, fumbled around the foam in his bra for the packet. He looked interested enough, at least.

"What's your name, then?"

"Oh! Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I completely forgot! I'm Aziraphale. Aziraphale Fell." He looked it too, extended a hand, waiting patiently for Crowley to finish his fishing.

The packet came out quite squashed but none the worse for wear really. He fished out two and shook his hand, finally, with a grin. "Anthony Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley."

"Aziraphale Z. Fell," he offered, still shaking his hand. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Said quite primly: "I go by he/him."

 _Huh_. "Oh. Errh. That works for me too. Sure. 'She' when I'm performing often, when I'm, erh, like this. In drag, I mean. But I don't care much. They's fine too. Anything goes, really, for me."

"I see."

"He/him's fine yeah, if you'd like."

"Very well." Aziraphale smiled, looking down at Crowley's grip on his hand, politely. He gave it another shake, quite generously.

Crowley finally let go. He had very soft hands, _very_ well kept. Surely he was-

"Do you live around here, Mr. Crowley?"

"Just. Just Crowley – or Anthony, if you'd like."

"Do you live around here, Anthony?"

"Yeah. Just above there, actually." He pointed back at the club, the flat above that made up their temporary House, across his sharp, padded shoulder. "For now."

"I see. And what do you do?"

Crowley's two-inch fake, glittery eyelashes blinked dumbly at him. "What, erh. What do you think? Imma drag queen."

Aziraphale accepted the cigarette gratefully. "Is there money in that? I've always wondered."

"Of sorts. Own the club now. With Tracy. She's my erh, my partner."

"I see."

" _Business_ partner."

"…I see."

They'd started walking, strolling gently down the street without comment. Crowley's heels gave a cheery little tap-tap-tap with every step. His knee was fine again after a few months of taking it easy, luckily, could've been a right bother.

"You know, you didn't really strike me as a pronouns kind of guy," he admitted, glancing down at the pile of blond curls to his right.

"I've lived around these parts for most of my life, my dear." Aziraphale exhaled, through his nose. The effect was rather cool, Crowley thought. He'd keep that to himself, though. "I'm not a square."

There went the coolness factor, drifted away like a balloon into the night.

Crowley smiled into the dark. "'Course not. Never said you were, did I?"

They made it a little further up the street, came to a natural stop again, unspoken, putting out their fags. Aziraphale held out his hand for Crowley's, deposited them, he was pleased to see, in the appropriate compartment of the bin there. Started back in the direction they'd come from.

"Do you still knit?"

"Huh?"

"You were wearing a hat last time. When we, ah. When we met."

"Oh. Yeah, I don’t really wear that anymore."

"Goo- I mean, that's a pity."

"S'been the summer, hasn't it? Not really hat weather."

"Oh, one might get away with a classic Panama. Or a boater if one were feeling whimsical. And on a river."

"The fuck's a boater?"

"It's a _hat_ , Anthony."

"Right..."

"You should keep at it."

"At what?"

"The knitting. It's a very worthwhile craft. If one goes about it the right way."

"Alright. Do _you_ knit?"

"No…" Aziraphale stopped to look at him, quite seriously, back by their lamp post. "I sew."

"Oh!"

"Anthony, I rather get the sense you have been stereotyping me. I assure you I am a man of many and varied interests. Talents too."

"Never said you weren't."

"No. I suppose not." His strange grey eyes shone in the lamp light. Sharp, intelligent. Rather pretty, really. Laughing at him, quite possibly, which Crowley found he didn't mind at all.

"D'you, erh." He nodded behind him, loose curls moving on his head. "D'ya want to come on up? To my flat, I mean. Well s'more of a… room in a flat. An office, really, my office, with a bed in it... We just moved, you see. Fer a drink. Like. A night cap?"

Aziraphale blushed, hands behind his back, which told him everything he needed to know.

The blond wrinkled his unusual nose. "Better not. I've, ah. I have a lot to be getting on with at the moment. With the Wall Street crash, you know – of course it might come to nothing, but it's best to prepare for all eventualities, you see. And there's the, the family business, which I'm not involved with, but if worst comes to worst – well, it is family, isn't it? And it's the wedding season too, so in. In short. There's a whole lot to be getting on with."

Crowley blushed too, safe in the knowledge there was no way he'd see through the layers of foundation.

"Alright. Sure. Yeah, no problem, mate."

Those lovely eyes turned apologetic, worried. "Did you say you've just moved here?"

"Mm."

He lit up, took his hand again to shake it. "Well then I might see you around, Anthony. In fact, it's rather likely."

"…Sure thing."

"I walk the neighbourhood every day. I owe you one, now."

"Oh, erh. Yeah, sure. Yeah, that'd be nice."

"Very well. Good. I might see you around, then, Anthony."

"Sure thing, erh-" He'd forgotten his name already, like an idiot. "Yeah. Get home safely."

"Oh, I will. Mind how you go." And with that, they went their separate ways again, Crowley quite sure he'd never see him again, Aziraphale with every intention to.

_February 2009, 2:48 PM_

Aziraphale _did_ have every intention to, would have quite possibly taking the opportunity to come past again for another cigarette and perhaps another walk and maybe even something more, he really did, but as bad luck would have it, the recession _did_ hit London, and it _did_ hurt his family business, his parents and their business (his cousins' businesses too; they raked in slightly fewer millions in profit that year), and he got terribly busy helping out, left his business for weeks at a stretch, and then an awful lot of his own customers were hit or disappeared to summery islands far away from the real world that they owned or owned part of or had started a business at, and that, of course, hit his own business too.

He simply had no time to, and eventually thought it far too late.

It was therefore a _very_ stressed Mr. Fell that Crowley walked in on, quite by accident, in his tailoring shop the third time they met and quite an achievement that they decided to meet again then at all, planned to, as acquaintances.

How they _did_ manage to become friends, nothing less, slowly and eventually, we will return to later in the story. But friends they became, and slowly, eventually, something more.

_April 2017, 1:36 AM_

It was a little to their relief, a little disappointing for both that Crowley managed to make it up the first three flights of stairs from the club to his office with only a heavy lean and a strong, stable arm around his waist.

They both found themselves almost _hoping_ his knee would give out on the way up and thought themselves rather terrible, dreadful human beings for thinking so.

"Anthony, my dear, I truly think you ought to take off the boots, however lovely they are," Aziraphale gasped on the second flight, rounding to the third.

"I can't, angel," Crowley hissed halfway up the next set of stairs, "they're part of the whole ensemble, aren't they?! Half of the- the _pizzazz_ is in the fucking shoes."

"Yes, darling boy, and you look wonderful, but you _must_ take care of yourself, you are not a-"

"If you say I'm old again, I'll fucking throw you down these stairs myself, angel."

"I- you're not _old_ , Anthony," Aziraphale muttered, outraged. He'd lost his jacket on the first floor, was down to his shirt and sleeve garters, "you're just- just-"

"Just _what,_ Aziraphale, just fucking _what-"_

"Just- maturing…" he answered feebly. "Like a, uhm, like fine wine…"

"Like a- angel, that's the – _ow, fuck_ – that's the worst thing you've ever said. Did you bring any?"

"Obviously. A couple of very nice Rieslings, in fact. They're chilling in your refrigerator."

They made it to the office floor, both sweating profusely, Crowley trying very hard not to limp.

"You're limping, my dear."

"Am not."

"You are, you idiot, you're hanging off me."

"Have been for years, angel, nothing new there."

Aziraphale kicked the door open and dumped Anthony J. Crowley on to the swirling desk chair, the nearest of the chair and the couch and the desk he'd donated to him when he finally moved his mattress out of his office five years ago.

Aziraphale had vaguely missed it being there recently.

He glared at his friend, who sulked right back at him in his high sparkly lips and even sparklier, gorgeous red dress.

"Boots off. Now. I'll go find some ice in the kitchen and the Riesling and if The Them have had their hands on them, then I will not be held responsible for-"

"I can't, Aziraphale."

He paused in the door in his sweaty light grey shirt, looked back at him.

Crowley shot him a pathetic but effective fluttering of his eyelashes. "I can't get them off. Ma knee's too swollen."

"Oh, very well," Aziraphale sighed, quite happily, sinking to his knees in front of his chair, looking up at him. "Did I mention I received the results of the latest hearing with the map wankers?"

_October 2014, 5:55 PM_

The shop was rather large, on a corner. Aziraphale had finally told him the reason years ago now, and it made him laugh every time he glanced up at the black-out blinds Aziraphale had insisted on putting up on _this_ side of the shop whenever he made his way to his best friend's door.

The little bell tinkled merrily on his arrival in _A. Z. Fell & Co_., as it had taken to doing years and years ago.

He nodded at Anathema, the new girl, the seamstress Aziraphale had employed when business had finally picked up again and he'd found himself overrun with bookings. She was American, which brought back nice memories, and fun in that cut-throat kind of way which made him suspect Aziraphale had seen a little bit of himself in her when he chose to employ her. Today he shook his head when she held up the kettle and mimed out _tea?_ at him, far happier to cock his hip against the counter, browse through the nearest issue of _Sharp Suits_ magazine, and listen in on the conversation taking place at the other end of the shop with a little grin.

Mr. Fell himself was on the phone – an ancient landline by the looks of it, with a coil cord and ring dials and everything.

Aziraphale smiled at him, held up a single finger in that universal code for "I'll be with you in just a moment, my darling,"[1] and returned to frowning at his dialler, speaking in his friendliest, most patient voice.

Crowley felt privileged to know by now that this signalled flaming internal rage.

"Felt? No, this is A. Z. _Fell_ – nobody around here sells _felt_ , it is a lovely material for all manners of things, I'm sure, but it has _nothing_ to do with fine tail- no I can't name my price; I don't have it."

He smiled with the purest, most delicious seething condemnation Crowley had ever witnessed. "Nobody has it…"

The smile fell abruptly, made way for genuine outrage. "Well, there really is _no need_ for that kind of language. Goodbye." He put the phone down with much more force than usual. "Fucker."

Crowley couldn't help but guffaw.

"Hello, Crowley dear. Tea? I would love a cup, we have been inundated with the most tedious, munda-"

The phone coughed up another ring again. Aziraphale answered it with the world's biggest sigh.

"Fell and Co., how may I help you? … Yes, I _know_ , I _know_ I am _'A. Z._ Fell' – but _you_ have the 'UK', and so people are still able to distinguish between us, Gabriel-"

Crowley leapt off the counter and escaped to the kitchenette to make him a cuppa.

He walked into Anathema, who was just topping up three cups with milk.

He walked into Anathema, who was just topping up three cups with milk.

" _What IS the beef with his cousin?_ " she whispered, handing him one.

"You know FCUK? The, erh, fashion brand?" he grinned, nodding a quick thanks and brushing his long hair back behind his ear.

"Yeah?"

"Gabriel owns it."

" _No_ !" she hissed, holding the cup to her face with both hands in her excitement. " _What? Really?! Think I can get a discount?_ "

"Oh absolutely not, not if you value your job here," he murmured, quite seriously. "Ang- Aziraphale's convinced he stole the family business which, erh. He did. He and his thief of a sister.”

“ _No_ ! _There’s a sister too_?”

She made a good audience at least, this girl.

He sniffed for good measure, nodded. “Of course _they're_ barely on speaking terms now either, with her making couture stuff still. But yeah, cousin Gabriel inherited the family business years ago and got the good old ' _Fell & Co. _ ' name. Added a little ' _UK_ ' to it, didn’t ‘e, outsourced to sweat shops and shat on the quality of their products. 'Course it really took off. He's a multimillionaire today."

Anathema's eyes were huge behind her glasses. " _What_!"

"Yuuuuup. I tell you, girl, _all_ the best drama goes down in the tailoring industry.” He looked about (though who’d have invaded the tiny kitchenette only God knew), shuffled a little closer, lowered his voice. “Have you heard about the Ordnance Survey disaster yet?"

"The- the what?"

"The Ordnance Survey _crime_ ," Aziraphale spat from the next room over, having smacked down the phone on a ranting Gabriel. He appeared in the kitchenette and downed his scorching hot tea in one go. "How the- the- the fff-"

"-Aziraphale, angel, calm down-"

"How the- the _bad people_ over at Ordnance Survey: Land and Property Mapping _stole my address._ "

"They _what_?" Anathema slurped her tea to hide her grin. Crowley noticed, having done the same thing countless times before.

"Stole his address." Crowley frowned, letting his thin, high eyebrows dip as low as possible to stop any risk of showing amusement. "2004 they updated their maps of Mayfair, including Savile Row. Now, Aziraphale here is obviously on the corner, and well…"

"The _arseholes_ redesignated me from Savile Row – the finest, proudest men's tailors' street in _the world_ -"

"-Oh,the galaxy, angel, easily. The universe. At the _least_ -"

"…And reassigned me to _Boyle Street_."

_April 2017, 01:41 AM_

Aziraphale's hand rested ever-so-lightly on Crowley's knee, forgotten.

Crowley found himself entirely unable to distract himself from it, barely able to keep up with the words spilling from Aziraphale's pretty little mouth.

It was funny. He looked quite masculine, really, most of the time and overall, though his individual features – his mouth, his chin, his beautiful grey eyes, even that unique nose of his, his eyebrows too – veered towards the traditionally feminine. He'd thought so many times before, wondered what they'd look like dressed up in makeup. He certainly had the mannerisms when he got agitated.

Also. His hand was on his thigh. On his thigh. _Handonthigh_.

"... _Boyle Street_ , Crowley-dear, _boil_ … So they think that because fifty-three per cent of the _door_ to the shop is on Boyle Street – by their measurements – that the shop must also be, even though sixty percent of the shop _floor_ is on Savile Row, that the current address is correct." He reached up the slit of Crowley's dress, as business-like as at a suit fitting, and unzipped one boot all the way from the thigh and down.

Crowley's sat there mesmerised at his touch, very nearly paralysed, heart picking up its pace in his throat.

He could barely move, barely speak. Managed a weak "'m sorry, Aziraphale." And one small, one very small movement: Just his hands with its long glittering grey nails landing ever so softly on his hair, brushing through the curls he'd never, come to think of it, touched before.

They were soft. _So_ soft. Like clouds, really, but real, right there, warm to the touch.

Aziraphale looked up at him again, finally, his gorgeous eyes wide, astonished, the little line between his eyebrows that normally meant worry saying something quite different, suddenly.

"Oh. Hello."

Crowley smiled and touched the little line with the pad of his thumb, gently, continuing across his eyebrow, down his cheek, careful to keep the sharp nail away from his soft, gently wrinkled, not-quite-springy skin. His hand shook slightly as it moved, he noticed, with a detached sort of buzz.

"Wasn't this what you meant, angel? Downstairs?"

Aziraphale licked his lips, never breaking eye contact. "Yes. _Yes_. But I wasn't entirely certain that you'd… that you wanted to."

"'s'like you said, isn't it? About time."

"Yes."

"Do you want to?"

" _Yes._ "

"Me too," Crowley mumbled, edging on to the dip below his bottom lip. His thumb fit in perfectly there, in the warm valley between Aziraphale's lip and chin.

It stayed there for seconds, decades. They stared at each other, unmoving.

Then slowly, ever so slowly, Aziraphale craned his neck and kissed the thumb, took hold of his hand and kissed that too.

His lips were slightly warm, very dry again already. They could do with a bit of Crowley's lip balm, really, Crowley thought somewhere at the back of his buzzing mind.

Aziraphale seemed to think the same, letting go of his hand, letting it rest gently on the naked thigh poking out the deep slit in the dress.

"First your knee, my dear," he muttered, blushing a deep, lovely pink.

The first teeth of the zip of his other boot came away from his other thigh with a little tug, Aziraphale's warm hand brushing along his skin ever so slightly as he opened up the endless boot, as he took a hold of the foot of it and pulled it off as carefully as he could.

Aziraphale stared at the boot in his hand, pink up to the ears now. Set it down on the soft carpet.

"I ought to get that ice." He watched, seemed just as amazed as Crowley as his hands made it back on to Crowley's thighs, as he used them, softly, gently, to rise up on his own knees, finally face-to-face with Crowley.

He licked his lips again, just his fingertips left on his legs now, and swallowed. "Here we are, then."

Crowley's chest heaved, caught in his tight dress, so acutely, ridiculously aware of his fingers on him. "Here we are, angel."

And Aziraphale glanced at him quickly, leant in, and kissed him.

It was over in a heartbeat, two at most, before Aziraphale leant back again.

There was a bit of sparkling red lipstick on his bottom lip.

Crowley would've laughed if he'd remembered how to, if he wasn’t tingly all over, struck dumb and warmly, shockingly happy.

_01:43 AM_

Aziraphale leant back, tried to swallow and didn't quite manage, forgetting everything other than to look up at him.

He looked beautiful, his Crowley, soft and sharp and startled, his golden eyes enormous in their soft pink makeup, the sharp black line of his eyeliner.

Aziraphale had spent hours on other nights watching him put it on, take it off again. Sometimes he'd wondered how he himself would look, if he'd look anywhere near as gorgeous as Anthony with his regal features, his beautiful golden eyes. How it might feel to have Anthony apply it when his fingers were all soft and bony, before he put on his nails.

He only noticed that Anthony was holding on to his shoulder when those same sharp nails dug into it.

He was breathing hard, stuttered, Aziraphale noted with abstract amazement.

His lip was slightly smudged. It had been rather dry, really, despite the gloss. A most peculiar combination. Sticky when they'd.

When they'd. When they'd.

_Good lord, they'd kissed._

Aziraphale huffed out a giggle, then another. Anthony joined in with a snort of his own on the third and then they were both laughing, laughing and touching faces and thighs and looking at each other and laughing again and then they were leaning in, the both of them, closing their eyes and kissing again and it was much nicer, much better really, warmer and wetter and suddenly open-mouthed and the makeup tasted horrible, but then Anthony's tongue was there, right there, and he met it, sucked on it gently and then they were _really_ kissing, breating hard, sharp air at each other's noses and Anthony moaned and that was _wonderful,_ perfect really, better than Aziraphale had ever imagined it would be and there was a slick little sound as they went deeper and Anthony moaned again and Aziraphale did too, could not help himself, gripping his thighs and

" _Oo-ow_!" Crowley moaned into his mouth, not at all the same, pulling back and huffing, lips red and wet and gorgeous. "Sorry, sorry, my knee-".

Aziraphale's own " _sorry, so sorry_ " was swallowed up in another kiss before he pulled back, kissed his naked knee, sat up with a rather out-of-breath "I'm going to get the ice, you stay right- there there, don't you dare move at all," and he left on wobbly legs while he was still in a state to do so, praying to the Lord Above that all of The Them and Tracy and Eric and everyone else would be so kind as to just piss right off for now.

Miraculously they did, and he made it back from the kitchen almost soundlessly with both ice and the wine, throwing them both at Anthony and hesitating at the door, wondering whether to lock the lock, whether the lock worked at all, whether it was as old and rusty as the rest of the building.

"Lock it."

And so he did.

Crowley _had_ moved, the scoundrel, had edged towards his makeup mirror and peeled off his eyelashes, was scrubbing at his lips with a darkened face cloth, his face wet with some kind of lotion.

Aziraphale took a step towards him, looked at him in the mirror. "Can I help?"

"The pins," he mumbled, thinned-out red lipstick all over his chin, and Aziraphale got started on them, pulling out as many as he could find from his gorgeous, beautiful, natural long hair, ever so gently, ever so carefully.

_01:48 AM_

Anthony got most of the makeup off, rinsed off his face, and started on the face cream.

He paused, and dried it off again with a little smirk in the mirror, sitting back to watch Aziraphale go through his hair, keep the back of ice on his knee.

It felt rather nice, really. He was very careful, so very careful until he wasn't, until he got stubborn and pulled at his hair and it wasn't _quite_ as titillating, but still not as harsh as when Crowley did it himself.

He came round to side, concentrating very hard on the bit behind Anthony's ear and all of a sudden the blood throbbed in his ears, his brain again and Anthony reached out, ran his fingertips up Aziraphale's perfectly tailored inseam, hesitating halfway up his thigh, barely breathing as he watched for a reaction in the mirror.

Aziraphale paused.

For a moment, nothing moved, nothing said anything apart from the low murmur of a beat from four floors below.

Then he leant down and kissed the top of Anthony's head and he dared to move again, kept going up, and up, until he made contact with- with, _god, fuck_ , he was half-hard at least, _big_ , which Crowley hadn't predicted, bigger as he cupped him, squeezed him gently, as the angel let out a sigh and pressed himself gently into his hand, and then suddenly he stepped away, turned Anthony around on his chair again, minding his knee, leaning down to kiss him hard, _hard_ , with an "are you sure?" and Anthony could only nod as he was offered a hand and a strong arm held him, got him up and standing.

"It, erh, it unzips on the side. The erhhh _hhh_ , the left," he managed, staring at Aziraphale in the mirror, as he nodded, then smiled, then kissed his open shoulder and spoke in a soft, soothing voice.

"I know, my dear, I made the thing." And the zip came off and the dress off his shoulders, down his arms, and fell off his hips, and for the first time ever, Aziraphale let it lie there while he helped Anthony out of his foam hips, his arse and bra and tights until he was left entirely naked, naked and flushed and hard, cock straining towards the tailor who was – _oh fuck oh god oh fuck_ – who was kissing his shoulder, his neck, the side of his mouth, whose soft, skilled hand was roaming down his hip, stopping just short of his throbbing cock.

Why was he.what the fuck.why did he.what.

"May I?"

Oh.

" _Yesss, angel, fuck. Yes you fucking may_."

And Aziraphale smiled against his lips, and _did_ , took him in hand and gave a long, languid pull, and Crowley _twitched_ , twitched in his hand and bucked and keened into his mouth, and the angel smirked and tutted, the bastard, spoke in the softest, lightest tone as he gave him another pull.

"Watch your knee now, my dear. Perhaps…”

“Hnngh?”

“...Perhaps I could use my mouth on you instead?"

He nodded, gasping, soft and frail as putty, fizzing under his skin from his nails to his toes to his – yeah, fine, his prick was fucking _buzzing_ , leaking on Aziraphale when he gave him another long tug, let his thumb glide over his tip.

Crowley pushed into his hand before he’d even realised.

Aziraphale keened, long and deep and quietly into his shoulder, ghosting his lips across his tense, red neck, shaking like the rest of him. It tickled. It fucking _tickled._

Fuck, he was gonna burst. Gonna _burst_ with fucking- fucking _Aziraphale_.

"Why don't you sit down then, Anthony, hmm? Carefully now."

He got back down on the chair with more support from the tailor.

"You look beautiful, my dear."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Aziraphale sighed, looking down at him with pure adoration, crowned by those ridiculous curls, though ridiculously soft curls, as he now knew.

"Yeah, well so do you. So do you. Get yer fucking garb off, angel." His knob was straining his trousers right in front of him, which was simply fucking intolerable, mindblowingly outrageous.

He leant his skinny forearms on his own thighs, ignored his prick and his whining knee to watch, _watch_ as Aziraphale removed first his sleeve garters, then his tie, his shirt, button by button, _achingly_ slowly.

He could swear he was smirking, the arsehole, as he unbuttoned his trousers, stepped out of one leg, then the other, his cock straining his – his _tightie-fucking-whities_ now and yeah, he was. Yeah fuck, he was big, fat when he sprang free of the briefs, balls dark behind his prick and fuck _fuck fuck fuck_ "angel fuck, _fuck_ you look good, what the fuck, shit, come here, come here please-"

Aziraphale waddled over slowly, chest and stomach heaving with excitement, prick bobbing gently with each step. 

He stopped just short of Crowley’s face and Crowley’s patience exploded. 

"I'm- I'm ah, I'm clean, I haven't had a, haven't had a partner since we started, since we began to - to, you know. Since I thought this, ah, this might be. Might be a possibility."

"Huh? Oh, fuck. Yeah, me too, me too, haven't been with anyone else for- for ages, only. Fuck, I've, erh," he grinned, lost it again immediately, too overcome with the sight in front of him. "Fuck, yeah I've only thought about you for- for a while."

He took hold of him, finally, warm and fucking _unbelievable_ in his hand.

"Good _lord_ , Crowley, I'm not going to last very long, not very long at all, not when you-"

"Come here then, angel," he pleaded, reaching out for the rest of him, pulling him in by the wrist, "S’fine, I’m. Like. Yeah me neither. Fuck no. No way. Don't care at all. Can I suck you off?"

Aziraphale stepped up to him fully, ran his hand gently through his hair, trembling himself now as he nodded once, then again, moved his long hair gently from his face, holding it back from him, reddening in splotches from his neck and down his chest. "Please, Anthony, please my darling, _yes_."

And so Crowley did, sucked him in as best he could sitting like this with his dodgy knee and his desperation, far too into it to make it showy at all, to make it _good_.

Fuck, he was _lovely_ , velvet soft and rock-fucking-hard, felt massive in his mouth as he licked his salty tip, got him wet, sucked him in, sucked hard around him. Aziraphale moaned softly, then hard, groaned as Anthony started pulling up and back down, as he set a hard, firm pace, sucked him off as if his life depended on it.

He pulled at Aziraphale's hip, pushed to get him to move and he did, slightly, stuttered, rocking shallowly in his mouth as Crowley hollowed his cheeks around him, looked up, up at his pretty, gorgeous face, met his beautiful eyes and _shit,_ shit, Aziraphale gasped – " _oh, oh Anthony!_ " – and stuttered into him and he groaned, came, he fucking came, his fucking best friend, his fucking- fucking- the fucking love of his fucking life came _hard_ onto the roof of Crowley's mouth, warm and salty and not all that bitter, coating Crowley's tongue when he pulled back, pushed in again before Crowley managed to swallow at all.

Aziraphale slipped out of him long before Crowley wanted him to with another attempt at an " _Anthony_ ", got on his knees and it didn't look entirely intentional, looked as if he couldn't help himself, though he managed to get both hands on the back of Crowley's skull, pull him in for a kiss before Crowley managed to get rid of more of him, and he groaned again, didn't he the fucker, groaned again and brushed his tongue against his again and found his cock, found his cock with his hand and pulled at him and it was game over for Crowley, game over as he pushed into his warm soft hand, hard, _into Aziraphale’s fucking hand_ and shot into it with a keen of his own, and it had been _ages_ since he'd been touched like that and this was _angel_ , _Aziraphale_ , and he was good, so good, tasted amazing on his tongue, felt amazing in his mouth and round his sticky cock and his strong hand on his skull was fucking comforting and fuck- _fucking hell this was fucking mindblowing and there was that buzzing again and it melted into him, into a single, long, high note and he could do nothing, nothing other than sit there, sit there and get pulled off and snogged and kissed on the lips and snogged again with his stupid knee and his spent, purring fucking cock and fuck, fuck he never wanted this to end_.

_02:02 AM_

It did eventually, though, as all good things must – or rather, it all ascended into rather more skilful kissing and touching and Crowley found some of his bones again, a bit of his coordination eventually and helped clean up Aziraphale's hand, and they moved to the only other piece of furniture left in his office save his desk, his makeup table and his desk chair, and thankfully, _miraculously_ it was a couch, an old couch donated to him by Aziraphale when he moved out of here five years ago and wasn't that perfect _, perfect_ after all the wine dates they'd spent on it, it deserved to see a bit of action really, didn't it.

Aziraphale kissed him again, slowly now that they could afford to be, still pink-cheeked and gorgeous as he held Anthony's bony face, looked up at him with bright, intelligent adoration.

God he was so pretty, so, so pretty. He deserved to be kissed all the time. Crowley would make it his fucking mission now. Fuck it all.

"Angel?" he asked a moment later, hampered slightly by his hands on his cheeks.

"Mhmmm?"

"Have you ever wondered what you'd look like in drag?"

He got another soft, wet kiss on his lips for his question, a little smile. "Yes."

He played with his fuzzy blond chest hair, it tickled his lips when he brushed them across his broad chest. "D'you wanna try it?"

Aziraphale laid back down again.

"Perhaps, some day. I would try the makeup. Perhaps you could… And I could help you with a show, perhaps."

Crowley perked up to look down at him, surprised. "You wanna try performing? Voguing? Can be easily arranged. Next one's in May. S’nearly two months away."

"Oh, I didn't mean – I simply meant that I would love to make more dresses for you. Outfits. I couldn't do what you do, with the- the hands and the dips and the… duckwalks. I rather value my knees."

He kissed his chest again for good measure. "Could do face," he grinned, still hot all over. "Hands definitely, I think you've got a natural talent actually. Fashion."

"Oh, I don't know. I don't know, Anthony my darling."

"No pressure, angel."

He shuffled up on him, both hands on his chest as he kissed him again, slow and playful and ending in a grin from the both of them.

"So, it happened."

"It did, yes."

"It was, erh. It was nice."

"Wonderful, my darling." Aziraphale hugged him tight, cheek to cheek, breathing in the scent of each other, of them both, heartbeats slowing down, warm and comfortable, dress still forgotten on the floor.

"Anthony?"

"Mmhm?"

"Perhaps I would. Like to try."

[1] That's how Crowley interpreted it, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading, I know it's a long one! Kudos and comments are ALWAYS appreciated, and especially at the moment. :)
> 
> More of mehrto's beautiful art can be found on tumblr.


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